


Sparks at The Heart of the World

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles still has trouble believing he gets to touch sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks at The Heart of the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dazedrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazedrose/gifts), [comedicdrama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comedicdrama/gifts).



> I was having a truly awful day and started emailing this back and forth and it made my day much better. I've been trying to write this scenario for quite some time as well. Thanks to my partners in crime (so many crimes).

Stiles isn't entirely sure whether he wore out Derek or whether Derek is just being lazy. He thinks it's probably the latter but, hey, his ego could stand to take the first. It's not every alpha werewolf that has a nubile seventeen year old demanding sex every time they have the opportunity after all. Derek is lying face down on the bed, his arms around the pillow he's crushed his face into. His eyes are shut but it's not like he's sleeping. He's just lying there and being all naked and gorgeous and...

Stiles is pretty damn sure he's never, ever going to get over the fact he gets to touch.

He starts with just the pads of his fingers, tracing up Derek's legs, slow and tentative. When Derek makes a noise of query, Stiles stops, and then he gets this genius idea. "Biology revision. Muscle groups. Since you have so many muscle groups all musclely. I think you have some that the textbooks don't know about because, man, your muscles..." Stiles trails off when Derek makes another sleepy contented sound and settles more firmly into his sheets.

He gets bolder then, fingertips giving way to hands, to palms skimming up and over sleek, tanned skin, sleep (and sex) warm. Derek shifted when Stiles's mouth got in on the action but not to stop him. Oh no. Derek shifted to give him better access to his warm, salty skin. Stiles was more fascinated by the taste than grossed out. He'd been fascinated about everything to do with Derek - the taste of his mouth, the way his cock smelled, the way his come was slick and heavy. It also didn't taste too bad although that had taken Stiles some getting used to.

Finally he can't be satisfied with just lying beside Derek. Stiles swings his leg over Derek's thighs and settles into place, his cock nestled into the crack of Derek's ass. He waits for a moment but Derek doesn't move, doesn't push him off. Instead Derek seems to melt even further into the mattress as Stiles pushes his hands into the muscles at the base of his back and feels the shift and flex as he runs the heels of his hands up towards Derek's neck. 

The tattoo - Derek's stupid, awesome badass tattoo - that finally catches his attention, his hands shifting in smaller and smaller circles as he follows the curve around. Derek's sweating now, a sheen on his skin, making the movements easier and easier. Stiles realizes almost half-heartedly that he's hard. Maybe it's because he's so used to being hard around Derek that it doesn't seem important. Or maybe it's to do with the fact that he wasn't in this to get off (fringe benefit though) but more that he was in it just to touch, to feel. Everything about Derek drove him crazy after all.

Derek is breathing heavier now too, his hips shifting minutely under Stiles. They've not done this. He's not _fucked_ Derek. There have been fingers, sure, but Stiles wasn't exactly going to demand when he was just getting used to the whole OMG-sooooooo-not-a-virgin thing. He had to admit he liked the whole catching and being held down and riding and walls and...

So not a virgin.

Stiles lets his cock slip against Derek's ass when another idea floats into his mind. It's like one of those stupid cartoon light bulbs goes off above his head. He leans over, a low, dark groan coming from Derek at the change of angle and lays his lips on the very topmost curve of Derek's tattoo. The skin didn't taste any different under his tongue but he can feel the catch in Derek's breathing as he kisses and licks and sucks watching the bruises bloom, ripen and fade almost instantly. He works his way around the tattoo, dampening each curve, ignorant to everything but Derek's back under his mouth, Stiles's hands holding him still and Derek letting him.

Finally Derek’s hips become less of a suggestion of a thrust and a definite roll. Derek must be hard from the way he’s basically thrusting his cock into the sheets, desperate for some friction. If Stiles was more, you know, co-ordinated, he’d work a hand in between them and give Derek a little something to thrust into. But he’s almost done basically fellating Derek’s tattoo and he doesn’t like to leave a job incomplete. He might speed up, just a little, as he’s finding the throb in his own balls harder to ignore now. He’s not sure where things are going to go after he’s finally reached the final curve of the tattoo but he knows it’s going to be somewhere good.

Derek shifts under him when Stiles finally lifts his mouth and looks over his shoulder. Stiles is caught up, crouched low over Derek’s back, with just how dark Derek’s eyes are, pupils blown out. He can’t help but to lean forward and press a kiss against Derek’s mouth. There’s no finesse, none of the whole “we’re damn good at this kissing thing” right now. It’s more of a desperate mash with too many teeth and a bruising pressure that sends another slow roll of desire down to his toes. And straight to his cock.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, pulling back. He’s pretty far gone and it’s not going to take much to tip over the edge right now. He’s glad it was mostly a word that slipped out, rather than the potential mash of syllables he could have let loose.

Derek’s eyes are still dark but he’s biting his lip now, a little uncomfortable. Stiles ducks down and presses a kiss to Derek’s shoulder. “Do you want anything, man? De-Derek?” They don’t do this. They don’t scream out each other’s names in the middle of sex. He, Stiles Stilinski, was having sex. With a guy. With Derek. Who was hot like burning and strong enough to buck him off and go decide he wanted to be having sex with someone else.

“I-“ Derek’s cheeks darken, taking on a definite pink tinge. “Fuck.” Stiles rolls his hips again, working against the shift of Derek’s hips now. He really isn’t going to last long. Maybe he should get up and jack off or something. “I want you to…” The pause makes Stiles dread what was coming next. “I want you to come on my tattoo.” Derek says the words in a rush, ducking his head down to avoid meeting Stiles’s eyes.

Stiles leans forward and kisses at Derek’s shoulder, at his cheek. At the nape of his neck. “Okay.”

Derek relaxes under him for a moment, before shifting around until one of the hands that had been holding tight to the pillow was buried underneath him and, by the movements of his elbow, starts to jerk himself off already. The idea that Stiles has driven Derek to ask for something that is obviously, like, some kind of fantasy, makes him feel dizzy and turned on and completely out of control.

Stiles shifts up to give Derek room before taking himself in hand. “It’s not going to take long,” he warns, voice already rough. He’s having difficulty breathing, just a little, and it’s because all he can think about is the way that this is going to look. He wonders how it might feel to Derek, all warm and salty and _him_ and it’s maybe a little bit like Derek’s allowing Stiles to mark him up in a way that won’t fade in moments. The scent of Stiles will linger on Derek for anyone with a werewolf nose. It’ll fade – it always does – but it’s more than the marks Stiles usually tries to leave all over Derek.

It’s that thought that makes Stiles spill over his hand. He’s up on his knees now, shaky, his free hand resting on Derek’s shoulder as he comes and comes over the tattoo, white spattering over the black ink. Stiles looks for a moment before giving into the urge to trail his fingers through the mess, stroking it along the curve of the tattoo. Derek let out a low groan under him and came, hard and fast, burying his face in the pillow to muffle any more sound. 

Stiles gives up any pretense at calm then, scrabbling off Derek’s back and rolling against his side until Derek looks up long enough for Stiles to capture his mouth. He tries to pour everything into the kiss, all the want and thanks and yes and I… I love yous. _I love you_. Not just, “hey you’re hot” or “I could fall in love with you”. But this is real and scary and an oh shit moment of epic proportions. Stiles just keeps kissing, slower now.

Eventually he has to stop because air is a good thing. He’s calmer now, too, and ready to face Derek again. Derek smiles at him, real and genuine and suddenly that’s all he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song Run by Matt Nathanson because it has the line "you trace my lines" but that felt too on the nose...


End file.
